


On the Outside Looking In

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, olicity road trip fic drive, olicity spotting, porsches and sunsets and everything that comes after, third-party perspective on our favorite couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:35:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Encounters with Oliver & Felicity during their summer of love. Inspired by the #OlicitySpotting prompt and the road trip fic drive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dirty Water

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Dirty Water was originally posted as part of the Collection to Be Named Later -- apologies for the confusion/duplication!

Bill has worked as an usher for the field boxes at Fenway for more than forty years, and he’s seen pretty much everything in that time – from Bucky Fucking Dent to Big Papi, and the ebb and flow of fans to match.

Fenway is never dead when there’s a home game, even in mid-August when the Sox are 6 games under .500 and firmly trapped in the cellar. But the crowds this summer are a little less full, a little less passionate, and maybe a little more about singing  _Sweet Caroline_. The sing-a-long is no longer new enough for Bill to complain about, but he’s been here three times as long as they’ve been singing it in the middle of the eighth, so he still hasn’t accepted it.

But he can’t deny that it makes the fans happy.

There are always first-timers, even for a Tuesday night game against a mediocre opponent when it’s 80 and muggy out. So Bill stands at the top of the ramp, watching people’s faces light up as the Green Monster comes into view, waiting for someone to need help to locate their seats. 

He’s just finished greeting an enthusiastic young girl carrying a bright blue glove and a Wally the mascot doll, when he straightens to find a tiny, smiling blonde in a traditional “B” cap and a too-large home jersey standing before him.

“Hi!” she says, glancing at his nametag. “Bill, could you help us find our _amazing_  seats?”

Bill accepts the ticket she holds out and glances at the tall, broad-shouldered man beside her. He’s wearing a Starling cap and a knowing smirk as his girlfriend elbows him. “First time to Fenway?” Bill asks, scanning the ticket quickly. Good seats, just seven rows back from the field behind the Sox on-deck circle. He motions them along the walkway for two sections, and starts down the narrow aisle towards their seats.

“I went to college in Boston,” the blonde answers as she follows. 

Bill stops at their row and hands the ticket back, pausing to wipe away the few remaining raindrops from a late-afternoon shower from the plastic seats. 

When he turns to face them, the tiny blonde grins at him and hooks a thumb over her shoulder at her boyfriend. “He’s a virgin, though.” The other man huffs a laugh, and she practically twinkles up at him. “Probably the only time I’ll ever get to say  _that_.” 

“Hey,” the guy protests, but he doesn’t sound even a little bit offended. For such a big, gruff looking guy, he sure stares at his girlfriend like she’s got him wrapped around her little finger.

Bill shakes his head a bit, missing his beloved Adrianna with that dull, heavy ache that never really goes away. He looks back and forth between the two of them, and years and years spent watching people interact has him guessing, “Honeymoon?” Because she leans into him for no reason, and he slings an arm around her in response even though it’s hotter than the inside of an oven. Plus neither one of ‘em has paid the milling crowds jostling past them much attention at all, wrapped up as they are in each other.

But the blonde laughs at his question, a bright, joyful sound, and says, “God, no.” Then she looks at Bill and sobers quickly. “Oh, that probably sounded awful, but I mean -– no, we’re not, because  _this_ one-–” She tilts her head to the side. “Long story. Anyway. Nope. Just on vacation. A nice, long,  _really_ overdue vacation.” She glances up at her boyfriend and her whole expression softens. “Together.”

“Plus,” the boyfriend adds, and he’s only got eyes for her, “I’ll take you somewhere better for our honeymoon.”

Bill feels his eyebrows raising as he watches, because the blonde doesn’t react to that at all how he’s expecting. Instead of getting all sappy, she leans away from him and snacks his bicep. “How  _dare_  you insult Fenway!” She flings an arm out to encompass the green fields below, nearly knocking the beer out of a passerby’s hand. “Sorry!” she calls out, then returns to her argument, moving past Bill into their row. “Fenway is historic! It’s beautiful, and it’s so  _green,_ which  _you_ should appreciate.”

Her boyfriend watches her with an expression Bill remembers from his own wedding photos. 

Bill waves the other man into their row, and moves one stair back the way he came before turning to offer, “Want me to take a picture of the two of you?” It’s basically a requirement – posing with your back to the Monster, players in bright white uniforms warming up on the green field behind you.

The boyfriend nods his thanks, digging his phone out of his jeans pocket and thumbing to the correct app.

Meanwhile, the blonde woman has frozen where she stands, staring up at her boyfriend. “Wait…” she says, “You… You didn’t just-–”

Bill snaps a picture while they’re not even paying attention –- they’re half-turned towards each other with the Green Monster in the background, everything lit with the late, late afternoon glow. It’s a cute picture, Bill thinks -– her brow is furrowed in confusion, and he looks a little nervous, but they’re both so very focused on each other.

“I’m not proposing to you in a ballpark, Felicity,” he says, grinning down at his girlfriend.

Felicity, apparently. Bill decides her name is pretty fitting. 

He snaps another picture as Felicity’s boyfriend leans in a little closer, presses a quick kiss to her lips. Then he straightens and his whole face lights up with mischievous joy when he adds, “But I  _will_  propose to you.”

Felicity’s mouth drops open for a moment, and then the young nearly-engaged couple stand there, grinning at each other like fools in love. Bill takes another picture before they seem to remember his presence. And his offer.

“Oh!” Felicity says, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “Sorry, Bill. Thanks so much.”

They lean closer to each other and smile for the camera, but Bill can already tell the pictures he took earlier are better. The pictures that capture the way they can’t keep from looking at each other – those will be the ones they save for years and years. He’s got a similar picture of him and Adrianna at home on the table beside his reading chair – she’s sitting on his lap and grinning down at him, and he’s gazing up at her.  _The look of love_ , their youngest daughter calls it.

Whatever it is, Felicity and her soon-to-be-fiance have it. So Bill hands the phone back and pauses, “Congratulations,” he says.

Felicity flushes again, “Oh, but we haven’t–”

“You will,” Bill interrupts, touching his fingertips to the brim of his cap.

Beside Felicity, her boyfriend nods once. “We will. Thanks.”

-30-

Yeah, I don’t know. ::shrug::


	2. marks on my skin

It’s really hard for Jenean to make the time to get to the beach with her kids. Galveston is a bit of a drive, and the girls have some summer activities, and, honestly, she probably shouldn’t spend the money. Because a day at the beach means ice cream and bottled water and fried dough and seafood. 

It’s a lot, but this summer, Jenean is making the effort because it feels a little like the end of an era – in ways both good and bad. Jasmine is about to start middle school, and there’s enough attitude creeping into their interactions for Jenean to know the terrible teenage years are almost upon them. But it’s also the first summer in two years that Aliyah isn’t in treatment. Finally,  _finally_ , Jenean’s rambunctious seven-year-old is in remission.

It’s hard because her work schedule is subject to the whims of the store manager, but Jenean does her best to get them to the beach one day each week. Which is how they end up at Galveston Beach on a Tuesday in July, Jenean lying under the borrowed beach umbrella while Jasmine dozes in the sun and Aliyah runs back and forth from their spot to the waves. Jenean doesn’t even mind that Aliyah’s kicking sand everywhere, because it’s been so long since her baby girl has had enough energy to cause trouble.

Before that thought even passes, Aliyah is running towards her, shouting “Mom! Mom!” She skids to a stop ten feet from their nest of beach towels and points to a white couple sitting not far away. “Look, Mom, he has scars like me!”

Jenean freezes, her mouth dropping open. “Aliyah!” she snaps. “Get over here!”

Aliyah starts to pout. “But Mom–”

“It’s okay,” interrupts an unfamiliar voice.

Jenean glances past her daughter and finds the white couple has half-turned to them. The woman is small and blonde and smiling, while the man is large and muscular and, as Aliyah mentioned, pretty well covered in scars. Jenean’s seen a lot in her days, but she’s never seen a collection of scars quite like that. There are a few tattoos thrown in as well.

But he’s smiling, too, and looking at Aliyah. “It’s okay,” he repeats, pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head to talk to her. “I do have a lot of scars.”

Jenean can’t help but try to explain, to apologize for her daughter’s rudeness, “I raised my daughter better than to talk about other people’s appearances. Aliyah, you remember how it felt when kids stared at you, right?”

Aliyah looks suitably chastened, her hand tugging on the t-shirt she insists on wearing over her swimsuit. She turns to the white couple, her head tipped forward so her pigtails fall against her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“My name is Oliver,” the man says, glancing over to Jenean before turning his attention back to Aliyah. “And it’s okay that you noticed my scars. I don’t mind.”

Jenean is watching them closely, now. The blonde woman has shifted, moving to sit beside the man – Oliver – and put a supportive hand on his back while he talks to Aliyah. Aliyah has drifted closer, her hands playing along the hem of her bright blue t-shirt. “Do people stare at them?”

The man shrugs. “Some people do.”

“Curiosity is okay,” the woman adds. “Differences are okay.” She grins and holds a hand out to Aliyah. “I'm Felicity.”

Aliyah glances at Jenean for permission, then closes the distance to the couple on the towel and shakes Felicity’s hand. “I’m Aliyah. I have scars, too.”

Jenean isn’t sure what to do. She knows Aliyah can be a lot to handle, as she’s a bright, curious girl who’s had to grow up before her time. She doesn’t want to drag Aliyah away from this discussion, but she’d really, really prefer to have a conversation with this Oliver  _before_  he gives any advice to her daughter.

Before she can decide, Felicity is speaking. “Then you must be really brave,” she says to Aliyah.

Aliyah shrugs. “My mom says I am,” she answers dismissively. 

“I bet your scars are beautiful,” Felicity says.

Jenean can feel tears stinging in her eyes, and she can’t stop looking between her daughter and the kind young woman talking to her. Oliver seems just as affected as Jenean herself is.

Aliyah frowns. “Scars are ugly.”

“No,” Felicity answers, smiling brightly. “Scars are beautiful. Do you know why?”

Aliyah shakes her head, watching the blonde woman closely. 

“Because they’re a mark you can look at every day when you feel sad or scared and remember just how strong you are. Scars are proof that you won your battle.”

The only sound for a long moment is a seagull squawking, as all three adults watch Aliyah for her reaction. Jenean isn’t even breathing as she watches her daughter turn Felicity’s words over in her mind.

Aliyah steps closer to Oliver, her head tilting as she surveys him. “You musta won a  _lot_  of fights,” she says, slightly awed.

Jenean relaxes a little, but it’s nothing to Felicity’s reaction. The woman breaks into laughter, hiding her face in Oliver’s shoulder as he glances down at her with affection and maybe a bit of exasperation. Then he nods to Aliyah. “I guess I did,” he says. “We must have that in common, Aliyah.”

Aliyah nods. “Do you like dogs?” she asks, and Oliver’s smile widens.

The conversation lightens after that, and Aliyah is soon distracted by the desire for ice cream. Jenean and Aliyah leave Jasmine in charge of their towels and trudge up to the boardwalk for food. When they return, Oliver and Felicity are gone, and Jenean nearly forgets about the short, intense conversation.

Until mid-afternoon, when Aliyah pauses on the edge of her towel, about to head down to the waterline again. Then she tugs her blue t-shirt over her head, leaving her in a purple bikini, her beautiful, scarred brown skin shining in the sun.

Aliyah looks at Jenean and smiles, then turns and runs for the water.

-30-


	3. Rocky a deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for youguysimserious. :)

 

Shali wanders along the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, more concerned with the texts from her sisters than the idiot tourists pretending to be Rocky. Which they  _all_  do, with varying degrees of success. But Shali’s been working at the museum long enough to completely ignore it most days. Especially when she’s trying to defuse a really stupid fight her sisters are having. About  _where to meet for lunch_ , of all idiotic things.

Frustrated, she shoves her phone in her purse and crosses her arms, turning to look out over the parkway to the Washington Monument at the center of Eakins Oval. The view has always soothed her – the familiar sight of her city. She still has a few minutes before she needs to be inside to start her shift, so she tilts her head up and closes her eyes, soaking in the mid-morning sunshine.

When her gaze drops to the steps, there are, predictably, several people running like they’re Rocky. 

Well, there are two lean, lithe women who are  _clearly_  habitual long-distance runners, because they’re not even  _breathing hard_  as they glide up the steps. It makes Shali feel guilty about slacking off on her couch-to-5K program. Ugh. 

The two women reach the top and turn, without even breaking stride or stopping their ongoing conversation, and start back down the stairs. Damn.

There are also three different men attempting the Rocky run -– two of them are struggling, breathing hard, their legs clearly tiring as they slow and slow and slow each successive stair. The third is -– well, he looks just as unaffected as the two women runners, but he  _definitely_  doesn’t have the lithe body of a distance runner. He’s broad and muscular, and he’s about to pass about ten feet away from Shali.

He draws closer, taking the steps two at a time in a really upsetting display of athleticism –- seriously, what’s with all these jerks reminding her with their effortless running that she’s still huffing and puffing by mile marker one? When he passes her, his gaze flicks briefly to Shali, and he gives a slight head nod, then turns his gaze back to the top.

The runner is incredibly handsome, with scruffy stubble along one of those stupidly square jaws and arched eyebrows over bright blue eyes. He looks somehow familiar, but Shali can’t quite place him. Still, her curiosity is piqued, and she turns to follow his progress.  There’s just a hint of sweat darkening the back of his grey t-shirt, and he’s got on grey cargo shorts and dark blue sneakers. It’s not quite Rocky’s full body grey sweats –- and he  _definitely_  doesn’t have the terrible floppy hair to pull off Rocky’s sweatband –- but it works thematically.

A tiny blonde woman is taking either video of his progress, or a series of pictures. She’s wearing a bright turquoise tank top and short white shorts, her hair pulled into a ponytail. And she’s beaming at what can only be her boyfriend as he draws ever closer. 

Shali is weirdly captivated by them. Curious. Probably edging over the line into nosy, if she’s being honest. Which her sister, Vidya, has  _always_  told her. Whatever.

When the very handsome athletic runner guy reaches the top of the steps, he doesn’t lift his arms in perfect Rocky imitation. Instead, he sweeps his tiny blonde into a full body hug, lifting her off the ground. Shali can hear the woman’s bright laughter even from thirty feet away. And then she tilts her head back andlifts  _her_  arms in the Rocky pose, one hand still wrapped around her phone. 

Shali can’t resist – she fumbles for her phone, unlocking it and snapping a quick picture of them. Because they’re kind of adorable? And it’s a take on the Rocky run she hasn’t seen much, which is saying something.  _And_ , yes, because he’s both familiar somehow and incredibly handsome. 

The sunlight is too bright for her to make out much on her phone screen, so she gives them a last look and heads inside. And then she regrets not telling them she took a picture of them and would send it if they wanted her to. Which, yes, would’ve felt weird and stalker-y? But it’s a  _really_  cute picture -– he’s in profile, his grin still fully visible as he gazes up at her. And she’s clearly laughing as he holds her a foot off the ground, one leg kicked up behind her like an old-time movie heroine getting kissed by the hero, and her hands held triumphantly over her head.

When Shali meets her sisters for lunch, she shows them the picture. Vidya convinces her she has to put it on instagram, because it’s just so cute and doesn’t she want to be a photographer some day? Shali dithers some, because–- because–- because it’s just something she snapped on her phone. Because she prefers still life, usually the crumbling American infrastructure, and not portraiture. Because she still feels a little weird about taking a picture of strangers without their permission. But that night, she posts it with the caption,  _Rocky a deux_.

Three days later, Shali gets a flurry of notifications on Instagram. It happens when she’s at work, actually, with her phone tucked away in her locker. Her phone that is almost out of battery when she grabs it for lunch, because of the hundreds and hundreds of notifications. 

“What?” she whispers, her hands shaking a little, because something is definitely going on. Frowning, Shali opens the app and reads through the first couple responses, and -– holy shit, that was  _Oliver Queen_ and his girlfriend? Like, shipwreck survivor Oliver Queen? 

 _Holy shit_!

No wonder her phone blew up. He’s been mostly out of the news the past year or so –- or least as far as Shali knows, which is mostly whatever Vidya tells her –- but this picture of him and a “mystery blonde” certainly got the attention of his fangirls. Who promptly identify his girlfriend as Felicity Smoak, his former executive assistant. Huh.

Then Shali notices a text notification that she’d missed in the flurry of viral retweeting and liking of that picture. She doesn’t recognize the number, and the Caller ID comes through as “blocked,” but she opens the message anyway.

 _Thanks for taking that beautiful picture of Oliver and me. He laughed when he saw it, but I cried. -Felicity_.

When she tries to reply, the text bounces back.

-30-


	4. Wannabe Hawkeyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another little fic to assist the MTV reblog efforts. If you've got a tumblr, please **[go reblog this post](http://mtv.tumblr.com/post/122443593980/nominee-3-of-6-like-or-reblog-this-post-to-vote)!** :)

 

Francine is used to the cycle -– whenever a new  _Avengers_  movie hits, their little archery range gets a spike of wannabe Hawkeyes who just want to learn to  _look cool_ with a bow and arrow. 

Not actually learn to  _shoot_ , not the typical newbies –- mostly, they think it looked cool onscreen and they figure they'll take a lesson. They always hate the required gear, and the safety lecture, and the way Francine harps on proper form for long, long minutes before they’re even allowed to pick up a bow, because they're really just here to upload some Vines of themselves looking cool.

All in all, the fanboy/fangirl effect has managed to do what Francine, a long-time archer who just missed making the 2012 Olympic team, used to think was impossible -– they’ve dulled her love for the skill and practice and calming, soothing repetition of archery. For years and years, archery was her safe haven, her escape from the shittier parts of her life, allowing her to revel in this innate skill she has. 

Sometimes, she regrets turning her passion into a job.

Like today, when her intro to archery students arrive for a private lesson, and the tiny blonde woman is wearing t-shirt with Black Widow on it. Francine swallows her sigh and approaches with a pasted on smile. “Hi, are you Oliver and Felicity?”

The tall, broad-shouldered man turns from where he’d been inspecting a gorgeous recurve bow and Francine tells herself not to react. Because, yeah, he’s handsome. And Felicity is gorgeous as she grins, dimples on display, and steps forward offering her hand. “Yes, hi, I’m Felicity. He’s Oliver. I mean,” she adds with a little laugh, “ _obviously_. You probably didn’t think  _he_  was Felicity and–-”

Oliver chuckles, his hand sliding along her back, and Felicity stops talking in favor of grinning up at him. 

Francine waits a beat, then says, “Welcome to the Archery Complex.” She introduces herself, and gives a brief explanation of what the intro class is meant to achieve. “So have either of you tried archery before?”

Felicity laughs, shaking her head. “I’ve watched this one,” she says, elbowing her boyfriend, “but no. Never picked up a bow.  _Have_  picked up an arrow,” she adds, frowning slightly. “Just to look at, I mean. Not to, like,  _fire in anger_.”

Oliver tugs her closer, turning his face down into her hair. Francine  _thinks_  he murmurs, “Fire in anger?” but he speaks so quietly she can’t be sure.

Francine blinks. “Okay.” She turns to Oliver. “So you have shot before?”

He nods, his lips pressed together in what Francine thinks might be his attempt to swallow a smile. “Friends taught me,” he says. “I’m pretty good these days.”

Francine brightens. “Oh? Do you spend time on ranges?”

Oliver opens his mouth, closes it again, and shakes his head. “Not really.”

“He hunts,” Felicity offers, her eyes wide and guileless behind her glasses, ignoring the way Oliver startles and looks down at her. “With his bow and arrow. He’s good. Like,  _stupid_  good.”

Francine is pretty sure she and Oliver have matching bemused looks. Stupid good? Okay. Plus something with the two of them is a little strange, but Francine just nods and moves on. So she’s got a newbie and an experienced archer. She really hopes this doesn’t means she’ll have to argue back and forth with Oliver on things like correcting Felicity’s form, or the proper moment to release the arrow.

Francine pushes aside her trepidation and brings Oliver and Felicity to the gear section. They take their time, and to Francine’s relief, Oliver is very insistent that Felicity find  _exactly_  the correct fit for all the protective gear. He defers to Francine in the initial picks -– probably because Francine and Felicity are roughly the same size – but double-checks the way the wristguard lies against Felicity’s skin. 

After thirty minutes on the range, Francine is more than impressed. Oliver is an excellent archer, with uncanny aim –- he hit the bullseye with six straight arrows, to Felicity’s rousing cheers. But he is far more interested in teaching Felicity. It should be awkward, since that’s what Francine is  _here_  for, but she’s kind of enjoying the dynamic.

Francine stands a few feet behind Felicity, suggesting tweaks to her form, urging her to calm her body, breathe deeply before releasing on an exhale. Felicity is struggling with her aim –- she hits the over-sized target with more than half of her shots, but she’s inconsistent. She misses high, she catches the bottom edge. Then she manages to hit a few inches to the left of dead center, and follows it up by missing high and to the right. There’s no obvious physical flaw to correct –- she’s not pulling off early, or canting the bow in any particular direction.

When Francine steps closer with a slight frown, Oliver catches her eye and then moves to stand just behind his girlfriend. “Breathe,” he tells her, and she hitches a laugh and shakes her head. He grins, encircling her body with his right arm, pressing his palm flat against her rib cage and stepping closer until his chest is flush against her back. “Now nock an arrow.”

“Bossy,” Felicity mutters.

“Do I argue when you tell me what to do with your tablet?” Oliver tosses back.

“Well, you’re terrible at technology,” Felicity answers, centering the arrow and correcting her grip before she moves to draw back the bowstring. “Hey,” she says, twisting to glare up at him. “Are you saying I’m terrible at this?”

Oliver leans down and presses a quick kiss to her frown. “I’m saying I listen when you’re the expert.”

“Hmmmph,” Felicity grumps. Then she glances at Francine. “Is this a standard training method?” she asks with a grin, indicating his large hand splayed on her body with a tilt of her chin.

Francine can’t help her answering smile. “Can’t say I’ve ever gotten that handsy with a client.”

Felicity snickers, then resumes the correct form, bringing the bow up and nocking an arrow. Oliver’s left hand gently runs along her bow arm, then drops to her hip, holding her steady. “When you’re ready,” he says, “take a breathe, feel the wind on your skin, focus on your target, and let go on your exhale.”

Francine can see Felicity stiffen in his arms, before bringing the bow down. “That’s a lot of  _stuff_ , Oliver.”

Oliver leans his forehead against the crown of her head. “Don’t get stuck in here,” he tells her, reaching up to tap his index finger gently against her temple, then easing his fingers along her left arm to bring the bow back up. “Just breathe and let go.”

Francine knows the moment Felicity decides to listen to him – her shoulders lift, and she melts back into him just a bit. Her rib cage expands, Oliver’s palm still resting flat against her abdomen, and then she lets go. 

The arrow lands in the third circle, maybe two inches left of the bullseye, and Felicity shrieks, lifting her arms in celebration. Oliver would’ve been brained by the bow in her grip, if he hadn’t nimbly ducked and stepped backwards.

“Nice reflexes,” Francine remarks, then turns to Felicity. “Great shot!”

Felicity gives a silly curtsy, the fingers of her free hand plucking the hem of her short white shorts. “Thanks!” she grins.

And then Oliver has her in a bear hug, lifting her up off the ground. Felicity yelps and wraps her arms around his neck, banging the recurve bow off of his shoulders. Francine can’t hear what he’s whispering to her, but Felicity’s grip tightens and she breathes out a little unsteadily. Then he sets her back on her feet, stepping back and smiling down at her.

“Yeah, yeah,” Felicity says, giving his chest a quick push. But she’s beaming back at him. “Why don’t you and Francine have a shoot off and let me practice.”

“A  _shoot_  off?” he repeats, amused.

“An arrow off?” Felicity suggests with a shrug. “Whatever. Go shoot some arrows, Oliver.”

Francine waits, arms crossed, for their little staring contest to end. And then Oliver turns to her, and the competitor in her responds immediately to the challenging arch of his eyebrow. Francine can feel herself start to smirk. “Oh, really?”

Oliver nods slowly. “Definitely.”

The next thirty minutes are some of the most fun Francine has had in a really long time. Oliver is  _unearthly_  good. Despite her perfect form, her years of practice, her worldwide ranking in archery, she can’t quite keep up with him. It’s frustrating as hell –- especially given how  _smug_  he gets about it –- but she hasn’t been this challenged in a really long time.

Eventually, Felicity puts her bow down and watches, choosing to cheer for Francine instead of her own boyfriend. When Francine gives her a confused look, Felicity just shrugs, “He does  _not_  need anything else to feel smug about.”

Oliver just smirks and releases an arrow, hitting dead center. Again.

They overstay their allotted lesson time, but Francine waves off their concern. When they finally pack up, she pushes for information on who taught him, on what training regimen he used. Oliver simply shrugs and smiles. “An old friend taught me. It was so long ago, I don’t remember much about the details.”

Francine sighs and lets it go, walking them back to the facility and dumping their used gear onto the countertop. She turns to the couple and offers her hand. “Thanks so much for coming in today.”

Felicity steps forward and gives her a quick hug. “Thanks for teaching me.”

When she steps back, Oliver shakes Francine’s hand quickly. “Thanks.”

It’s more than a year later that Francine happens to catch a gossipy headline about some rich former screwup getting hitched. Only when she sees the picture, she does a double take. Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak. The sparse details in the article don’t jibe at all with what Francine remembers of them.

And how the hell did some billionaire playboy learn to shoot  _like that_?

-30-


	5. Hiking Is Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fe-li-ci-ty: soo machawicket after this.. i kind of need.. fic? #olicityspotting #ontheoutsidelookingin
> 
> [All fe-li-ci-ty‘s fault.]
> 
> [Oh, and Stephen Amell's. His too](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/124611488597/fe-li-ci-ty-soo-machawicket-after-this-i).

 

Hiking is stupid.

Gemma knows this. She’s  _always_  known it. She remembers peeling off a group hike with friends years ago because slow-motion scaling of a mountain is the _opposite_  of fun –- and  _that_ hike had promised  _wine_  at the end. This? This is way worse. 

It’s six long, switchback-y, miles uphill to some supposedly gorgeous lookout, with occasional rocky steps and angled, uneven paths and,  _God_ , just so much strain on her legs. Because she tries to stay in shape. - _ish_. But she stopped her latest (sixth?) attempt at doing a couch to 5K at least three weeks ago, so her overall physical fitness level remains... meh. 

Yet here she is. Hiking. 

Worst third date ever.

Seriously, who takes someone  _hiking_  in the  _hot sun_  so they get all  _sweaty_  on the third date? Baseball caps and casual ponytails should be off the table until  _way_  later in the relationship -– at  _least_  Gemma should have had sex with a guy before he sees her like this. You know, like  _fun_  sweaty before this kind of over-exertion-in-the-sun sweaty. 

But here she is, rocking her Portland Trailblazers hat and gamely ignoring the damp cling of her cotton blouse against her back and the way her legs started to shake twenty minutes ago, because Miles is  _outdoorsy_. 

Which Gemma was perfectly willing to overlook when she saw all the stuff about biking and camping and  _hiking_  on his profile. Because Miles is also very cute, with curly, unruly dark hair and warm brown eyes. Two reasonably successful dinner dates (safely inside, where there are no bugs of any kind), plus a promising goodnight kiss, and Gemma found herself agreeing that hiking Sourdough Mountain would be a great third date. 

As she huffs and sweats and grumps her way up the trail behind him, Gemma is willing to consider that she’s made a tactical error. Even though all the biking and hiking Miles likes to do has apparently translated itself into a very nice ass, so the view ain’t half-bad. Plus he’s smart, and sort of funny? A little? Gemma doesn’t really get some of his references, but overall, she’s willing to wheeze her way up this mountain, chow down on some dry power bars, chug water, and then head back down.

But if Miles thinks this is a  _third date_  third date, well, he’s going to be mightily disappointed. The only place Gemma plans to be naked tonight is in her shower, to rinse off this impressive layer of sweat. God, a  _shower_. As soon as she walks in the door, she’s going to-– 

“Look!” Miles says, sounding excited and perfectly unruffled and not at all winded. He’s probably not daydreaming about a shower, either.

“Huh?” Gemma manages. Wheezily. 

Miles turns back, frowning. “Do you need to slow down?” he asks. With perhaps just a little bit more judginess than Gemma feels is warranted, but okay. “There’s a lookout up ahead. We can stop, have some water.”

She nods, because it takes less cardiovascular effort than speaking, and trudges along behind him in her shiny new hiking boots. When they reach the waist-high wooden fence, Gemma leans heavily on her elbows, willing her pulse to slow and her lungs to stop overreacting. Once she’s convinced she’s not about to pass out, she lifts her head and, okay, Miles was right -– the view is stunning.

Below Gemma and Miles the side of Sourdough Mountain falls away, giving them a sweeping view of a sparkling blue lake below. It’s quiet up here, too, just the rustle of the wind through the trees, and for a long moment, Gemma actually thinks this was kind of worth the endless hike.

“Wow,” she manages, just as another, louder, more exuberant voice nearby says, “Oliver, look!”

Gemma turns, leaning her hip on the railing to glance over at the newcomer. The woman rushing towards the overlook is tiny, blonde, and practically glowing in the sunlight. And she’s dragging an over-sized man with a silly grin on his face along behind her. The man glances at Gemma and Miles and gives them a quick nod. “Hello.”

Then he follows the tiny blonde to the railing, and stands  _really_  close to her, considering how hot it is out here in the direct midday sun. Gemma studies them curiously. The man looks like he stepped out of the pages of  _GQ_ , assuming  _GQ_ was running some kind of  _Hot Manly Hikers_  photo spread, in his plain grey t-shirt, a pair of well-worn khaki cargo shorts, and scuffed up hiking boots. Plus he’s got a backpack, a walking stick, and a bottle of water in one hand. 

Meanwhile, his girlfriend is like some kind of unaffected woodland sprite. Even in this oppressive heat, even after hiking who knows how far from the other side of this mountain, she’s rocking bright purple hiking boots, short olive-green shorts, and a flowy white crop top with a wrap slung across her torso. And somehow, she looks amazing. Like, is she even  _sweating_? Gemma stares at her with fascination. 

The tiny blonde pulls her boyfriend closer, stepping right up to the fence so her stomach rests against it. The guy leans his walking stick against the railing so he can step fully behind her, wrapping his arms around her torso. “It’s beautiful,” the blonde says, grinning out at the gorgeous scene below. 

Her boyfriend, meanwhile, is just gazing down at her with the most besotted, goofy expression that Gemma has ever seen in real life. And she  _knows_ , even before he says it, what his response will be. “Beautiful,” he repeats, clearly speaking about his girlfriend and not all the nature happening down below.

The blonde glances up at him and rolls her eyes, and their interaction is the kind of sappy thing that Gemma hates.  _Usually_. But they’re just... really cute? Gemma can’t quite figure out why, but she can’t stop watching them with this weird little hiccup of  _something_  in her chest. The way they look at each other is disarmingly  _genuine_  -– like they couldn’t possibly be happier in their lives than they are right this second. 

Gemma glances over at Miles, who is carefully peeling the wrapper off a power bar. When he notices her looking, he smiles and says, “Oh, did you want one now, too? I brought one with chocolate, since you seemed to like that mocha cheesecake.”

It’s actually sweet, and Gemma nods, reaching for the power bar. His fingers slide along hers briefly, and he gives her an encouraging smile. It’s nice. But then Gemma glances back over at the couple, and it’s like night and day. Sure, this is only her third date with Miles, but shouldn’t he look at her just a  _little bit_  more like Mr. Patagonia Catalog is gazing at his woman?

The blonde turns in her boyfriend’s arms and goes up on tip toe to press a quick kiss to his lips. Gemma feels like a crazy voyeur, but she can’t seem to stop watching them. The other woman glances over and catches Gemma’s eye with a an excited clap of her hands. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”

Gemma’s answering smile is as unexpected as it is genuine. “Sure,” she says, stepping a little closer. No wonder her boyfriend stares at her like she’s the sun – her dimples and her happiness and her bright blue eyes are kind of overwhelming when they’re turned in your direction.

Not that  _he’s_  difficult to look at or anything. Goodlord. The two of them together are too much.

“Yay!” the other woman says, then elbows her boyfriend. “Give her your phone.”

He chuckles a little, but obligingly digs a phone out of his pocket. “They make cargo shorts for women, too, you know,” he says, holding his phone out to his girlfriend, who gives him a very unconcerned shrug and murmurs something too low for Gemma to catch. But the guy makes a little playfully anguished noise, which only makes his girlfriend laugh.

“Thanks so much!” the tiny blonde says, entering a passcode before handing the phone to Gemma. Then she steps back to her boyfriend, who grabs his walking stick and slings his arm around her. 

Gemma backs up another step, framing the shot. “Ready?” she asks, and the blonde tosses her free arm out to the side in an exuberant, expansive gesture.

She can’t see details of the picture because it’s so bright out, but Gemma knows it’s going to be adorable. She hands the phone back over and waves off their effusive thanks with a grin. “No worries.”

“Oliver!” the blonde says, poking him in the chest with his own phone, “we’re putting this one on arrowgram for Thea.”

Oliver gives a long-suffering sigh that is  _not_  fooling anyone, considering the dopey grin on his face. “We’re  _not_  calling it that.”

“Too late,” she chirps, letting him take the phone and tuck it away. 

“Felicity, we can’t–”

“We’re on the side of a mountain so–-”

“The  _top_  of a mountain, actually.”

“Whatever! My point is that the lovely woman that took our picture doesn’t know or care about our inside jokes.”

Oliver looks a bit taken aback at that. “Inside  _jokes_?”

But the blonde –- Felicity, apparently -– grabs a fistful of his shirt for balance and goes up on her tip toes again, this time to whisper something to him. And his posture relaxes, his whole giant frame curving towards her as he answers her just as quietly.

Felicity cups his scruffy cheeks in her hands and kisses him once. “I believe,” she says, dropping back down onto her heels, “that I was promised tasty deliciousness if I tromped all the way up this mountain with you.”

Gemma has drifted back towards Miles, and she’s too far away to hear what Oliver whispers to his girlfriend, but from the sudden flush on her cheeks, it was dirty. But she just smacks his bicep good-naturedly, and then settles on a flat rock while he shrugs out of his backpack.

When Gemma manages to tear her attention away from the couple, Miles is watching her with an inscrutable expression. “Ready to head back?” he asks.

“Sure,” she answers. And she is actually ready for this date to be over. Because what she always assumed was fairy tale bullshit apparently  _does_  exist in the real world. And, sure, the couple currently seated close together on the low rock, leaning into each other and sharing trail mix? They’re both incredibly,  _unattainably_  attractive. But Gemma doesn’t even care about that. Not really.

She wants the  _connection_  they have –- the warmth, the caring, the  _happiness_. 

Miles seems like a pretty great guy. But maybe not a great guy  _for Gemma_. There’s no underlying connection between them that could ever lead to what Gemma just witnessed. The realization leaves her feeling a bit melancholy, but also maybe a little relieved. Like she doesn’t have to keep trying so hard to find something that’s not there.

As she moves to join Miles to hike back to his car, she can’t help but glance back. Oliver and Felicity are simply sitting together, her head tipped at an angle to lean against his shoulder as they quietly look out over the lake and valley below. 

Gemma wants  _that._ That peace. And maybe she feels a little wistful as she loses sight of them, but also? Now that she’s seen it? She feels a little bit hopeful, too.

 -30-

_Note: I put them on[Sourdough Mountain](http://www.nps.gov/noca/planyourvisit/sourdough-mountain-trail.htm), because (a) SOURDOUGH MOUNTAIN, and (b) Big Beaver Trail. YES, I AM TWELVE. SHUT UP._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is almost certainly the last chapter of this little 'verse, which has been a lot of fun to write. Huge thanks to lazyarrowwatcher over on tumblr for quick assistance with some Roy information. :)

 

Working with his hands is surprisingly satisfying.

It’s not the _same_  kind of satisfying as knocking bad guys’ skulls together alongside Oliver and Dig, but Roy’s dealing pretty well with his exile from Starling City. His _self-imposed_ exile, that he actually doesn’t regret.

He might miss them all, but that’s just something he’s learned to live with. He doesn’t regret sending Thea away -- he _really_  doesn’t -- but he misses her in a constant, aching way that doesn’t seem like it’s gonna ever fade.

So, sure. Roy knows he’s probably not gonna have it as good as he did in Starling again -- that family he found for himself can’t be replaced. And he sure as hell knows the satisfaction of reassembling a carburetor is nothing to the pride of keeping the city a little bit safer for one more night, but he won’t ever regret saving Oliver.

He can’t, not when it’s Oliver that saved him in the first place. If this means Oliver isn’t killed in jail for doing some good for Roy and countless others, well, it was worth it.

Roy’s new life isn’t perfect, but this beachside down not far from San Diego seems like a nice enough town -- the weather is about a thousand times better than Starling. The small garage he works at is honest and decent. Weevil’s a good boss, no matter how stupid his name is (and Roy doesn’t have a lot of room to talk, considering Arsenal and Arrow and Canary). Plus, Roy’s picking up Spanish to boot. He’s still pretty crap at languages, but he’s at least picked up the curses.

He’s doing good. He’s fine.

And if he intervenes in the occasional mugging, if sometimes he tugs the hood of his red sweatshirt up and steps into bad situations to keep innocent people from being hurt, well, no one needs to know. He’s perfectly happy fixing cars by day and just, on occasion, every once in awhile, maybe patrolling at night. A little bit.

Turns out all of this _trying to protect people_  is harder to turn off than he would’ve thought.

It’s a pretty random Tuesday night, late, probably closer to midnight than eleven, and Roy has just subdued a particularly determined, drunk, rape-y guy who, thankfully, had been too unsteady on his feet to do much more than try to grope passing women. Anyway, Roy has him bound to security gate outside of an apartment complex when he pulls out the super-secret, untraceable burner phone Felicity sent with him to call the cops.

He hangs up and is about ten steps down the sidewalk when a low, familiar voice asks, “You couldn’t even _try_  a different color hoodie?”

Roy stills, eyes wide, and turns slowly to find not just Oliver, but Felicity standing beside a Porsche pulled up to the curb, watching him with matching grins.

She shakes her head in faux disappointment. “Really, Roy, you need to mix it up, I really think you could rock a nice purple with those eyes of yours.”

Oliver’s grin widens, and he adds, “What happened to head on a swivel? You didn’t even notice us.”

“What?” Roy asks. Sputters, maybe. Forgive him, but it’s not every day two of his favorite people randomly show up in his new, semi-secret home town. And then the fact that they’re traveling together registers. Eyes narrowing, he takes in how closely together they’re standing, the casual way Oliver’s arm is slung around Felicity’s waist, and maybe the weird, like, _genuine_  smile on Oliver’s face makes sense. “Wait, _seriously_?”

Felicity runs out of what little patience she has, practically bouncing forward to tackle him with a hug. Roy sways with the impact, but brings his arms up and around her, crushing her close.

“I missed you,” she murmurs.

He hugs her back, finding himself grinning at the familiar scent of her hair. “Did you track my location with this apparently not so untraceable phone?” he teases her, squeezing her a bit tighter before stepping back.

She beams up at him. “It’s untraceable to mere mortals, but of course _I_ can find you anytime I want.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. “Good to see not much has changed.” Then he waves his hand between the two of them and adds, “Except _this_.”

When Roy turns to Oliver, he expects the same as when he left -- a solemn, meaningful handshake. Instead, Oliver is... he’s still _smiling_. Like, _for real_  smiling, and it’s weird and unsettling, and then Oliver takes a step closer and pulls Roy into a hug. For a brief moment, Roy is convinced that this is how he’ll die -- some kind of hold that looks like a hug but is really meant to strangle someone slowly to death.

Because _since when_  does Oliver Queen hug anyone not named Thea just to say hello? Or probably also Felicity now, but that’s not really the point -- Oliver doesn’t just _hug_  Roy.

Or he _didn’t_.

“Uh,” Roy says, when it becomes clear he’s _not_  living the final seconds of his life, “hi.”  He claps a hand on Oliver’s back, then blinks stupidly when Oliver releases him and steps back.

“Good to see you, Roy,” Oliver says. And he’s _smiling_  again, and it’s just eerie. “How are things here?”

“Decent,” Roy answers. “Got a job, got a little place.” He shrugs, because his life’s fine, but there’s not a lot to tell.

Oliver’s smile is more of a smirk now. “Got a little habit of crime-fighting?”

Except maybe that.

Roy can feel himself flushing, and is really thankful this strange reunion is happening in the dark. He shrugs. “Just saw a situation I could help correct.” He frowns, hearing the whine of a siren approaching. “Speaking of which, we should probably scram.”

Felicity giggles. “ _Scram_?” she repeats. “Have you been watching Bugs Bunny without me?”

Oliver beams down at her, like, _embarrassingly_ sappy. So blissfully happy that Roy just stares at him in awe as he teases his girlfriend. “You and Roy watch cartoons together?”

She reaches for his hand, tugging him towards the Porsche. “Scram now, stories later.”

Roy gives the expensive sports car a _look_. “You trying to get that stolen, driving it around here?”

Oliver ignores the jab, circling the trunk to the driver’s side, and Felicity reaches for the sleeve of Roy’s hoodie to pull him closer. “C’mon.”

“I don’t think we’re all gonna fit,” Roy observes.

“There’s a backseat,” Felicity announces. “It’s tiny, but big enough for...” She trails off, then adds, “sitting.”

Oliver pauses, his gaze locking with Felicity’s for just a moment before he slides into the driver’s seat.

“Oh, _gross_!” Roy yelps. “I’m really glad you two figured your shit out, but I really don’t need a ride in the sexmobile--”

“Roy!” Felicity interrupts. “We haven’t...” But she stops, biting her lip. She’s always been a pretty _terrible_  liar.

Oliver sounds more than a little exasperated when he says, “Felicity.”

Ugh, they’re both terrible liars, and are not even a little bit convincing him they haven’t thoroughly defiled the Porsche. Roy takes another step back, away from the car. “Look, there’s a diner on Robinson. Meet me there in a half hour.”

“Roy,” Felicity says. “We’ve _washed_  the car since--”

“ _Felicity_ ,” Oliver interrupts, shaking his head. But he’s got the stupidest grin on his face, and Roy knows he’s hardly _mad_ about Felicity letting the cat out of the bag.

“Nope,” Roy says. “No sexmobile rides for me.” Then he mock-glares at Felicity. “Ten minutes back in your presence and I’m talking about _sexmobile rides_  -- you’ve really got a gift.”

And then Roy makes the tactical error of glancing at Oliver, who is smirking. It’s the smuggest, smirkiest smirk Roy has ever seen on someone else’s face, and Roy knows what’s coming before Oliver even opens his mouth.

“She really does.”

The words aren’t suggestive at all -- it’s the appreciative tone of voice that makes Roy want to vomit.

He makes exaggerated gagging noises, then turns to go. “You two are even grosser together than you were when you were panting after each other,” he comments, heading for the alley. He raises his voice a little to add, “I didn’t think that was possible.”

& & &

Thirty-seven minutes later, Roy gets to the diner and is more than a little surprised to see that Oliver and Felicity beat him there. He’d figured either Oliver’s chronic lateness or their apparent inability to keep their hands off of each other would’ve made them late. Though, God, considering all the pining Roy’d had to witness the past year and half, it’s kind of surprising they took a long enough break to visit him.

He can see them through the large windows, sitting side by side in a booth near the back. Oliver’s on the outside, of course, protective to the end, and their hands are intertwined on the table. Felicity is grinning happily, but that part’s not _that_  new -- she’s always been a cheerful optimist.

The biggest change is in Oliver -- even his body language is more relaxed, more open. Roy used to think his mentor couldn’t possibly look more besotted than when he was gazing longingly at Felicity from across the room. But, yeah, Oliver -- _Oliver Badass Vigilante and Unrepentant Former Manwhore Queen_  -- tilts his head down at kisses Felicity on the nose.

Roy actually stops in the doorway and stares at them. Felicity scrunches her face up and giggles, and Oliver presses a slightly unchaste kiss to her lips, even as he lifts his free hand and waves Roy over.

Roy should’ve known Oliver’d spotted him.

“Yup -- you guys are gross,” Roy announces, sliding into the booth across from them and fighting to keep the smile from his face. Because seeing them happy -- yeah, it makes something petty and envious in his gut ache a little, but he really is happy for them. Like, happier than he would’ve expected. Felicity is one of his closest friends, and Oliver is the guy who inspired him to be... _more_ , and as much as he could live without the PDA, he’s genuinely happy that _they’re_  happy. Finally.

“Thanks,” Oliver answers dryly.

“No, I mean, it’s cool or whatever,” Roy backtracks as the waitress approaches. “Just a little unexpected.”

Felicity opens her mouth to answer, then turns her smile to the waitress. “Hi! I’m not sure what I want to eat yet, but I _definitely_  want a chocolate milkshake. Guys?”

Roy and Oliver order, and then Felicity decides on a burger, and they fall into a brief silence before she grins at Roy again.

And in yet another strange turn of events, it’s Oliver who speaks first. “You know, I expected a little less surprise from the guy who tried to lecture me for being a stubborn idiot about Felicity.”

The look on Felicity’s face is interesting -- some weird combination of confusion and thankfulness. She gives Roy a puzzled look. “You talked to Oliver about us?” Then she frowns. “I mean Oliver-and-me us, not you-and-me us,” she clarifies. “Since there’s not a you-and-me us, at least not in _that_  way, you know? Not in the romantic way, more of a--” She frowns, her gaze lifting to the ceiling as she considers her words-- “sibling thing,” she decides. “Right?”

Roy blinks. “Right.”

She lifts her eyebrows a bit. “So?”

Roy casts a slightly panicked look to Oliver, who simply lifts a shoulder in a shrug. What a guy. Roy asks Felicity, “So what?”

She rolls her eyes and tips her head in exasperation. “You talked to Oliver about us? About--”

“You and Oliver,” Roy interrupts, to save them all a repeat. But there’s a little bit of dread in his stomach as he considers how to answer. There’s no threat in the line of Oliver’s body, so Roy shrugs. “Well, he was trashing the Foundry, so I--”

“You trashed the Foundry?” Felicity interrupts, turning wide eyes to Oliver. “What? When?”

Roy can see her flipping through her memories, trying to figure it out. Roy’s trying to remember specifics too -- he knows it was during the really dark times after he found out he’d killed Officer Vincent, but those months are a little blurry. Mostly on purpose -- he tries not to think about them very often.

Oliver shifts a little in his seat. “Uh,” he says, apparently regretting this conversational topic. “It was-- It was a while ago.”

Roy snaps his fingers. “It was right around the Carrie Cutter case, wasn’t it?” Oliver freezes and Felicity’s jaw drops open, but Roy nods. “Yeah, and you were out with Palmer,” he tells Felicity. Because he remembers the anguish on Oliver’s face in the lair, the unexpected clatter of everything hitting the floor, the way Oliver steadied himself before actually admitting for once that he _wasn’t okay_.

It had been destabilizing, seeing Oliver struggling.

Roy remembers the calming dinner at Lyla and Dig’s, the sadness etched in the lines of Oliver’s face as he watched them together, watched the way they’d made a home. And Roy definitely remembers the drive home, where Oliver all but admitted that maybe he’d made a mistake pushing Felicity away but that it was too late to change course.

Stubborn idiot. Roy’s pretty sure he’d called Oliver that at the time, too.

So, yeah -- Roy remembers now, but Felicity is obviously still confused. “I wasn’t...” she trails off, looking at Oliver. “I _wasn’t_  out with Ray. Not then.” She shakes her head. “We didn’t-- I mean, we weren’t... Oliver?”

Oliver looks down at the table, and Roy recognizes this. He remembers this avoidance behavior, this precursor to an obvious subject change or a flat refusal to answer, because feelings are poison or something. Roy hasn’t ever quite understood, because he _knows_ Oliver feels things as deeply as he does, and he’s always been reactive -- quick to anger, quick to love, quick to be hurt. Oliver’s ability to turn it off, to build walls around it -- Roy has never been able to understand how he does it.

But then, to Roy’s utter shock, Oliver takes a breath and meets Felicity’s gaze. “I went to QC to talk to you, and when I saw you with Ray, I realized the...” He pauses, pressing his lips together. “The actual _cost_  of my decision to walk away from you,” he explains in this strange, soft tone of voice that Roy’s never heard before.

Felicity blinks a couple times. “You saw me with Ray,” she echoes slowly. “You mean...”

Oliver looks unhappy. “Yeah. You were-- You were kissing,” he answers, his tone strained but still calm. Still open. “So I… I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Roy is more than a little surprised to realize that Oliver isn’t mad about that night. Not anymore. He’d been _furious_  at himself back then -- Roy remembers the self-directed rage in his voice, the self-loathing evident in his decision to simply let go. Roy remembers trying to tell Oliver he could have what Dig and Lyla had; that he was a fucking idiot if he thought Felicity didn’t love him. He remembers the utter disbelief on Oliver’s face in response to that.

It’s 180 degrees from the way he looks now, tonight, and Roy feels... he feels almost _proud_ of Oliver. Though he’s pretty sure Oliver would kick his ass if he ever said that out loud, so he just keeps quiet and glances at Felicity.

Who is clearly flabbergasted. She shakes her head the tiniest bit. “That was before-- _Oliver_ , you... Why were you there?”

His hand tightens on hers, and he leans in, bumping her shoulder with his. “Doesn’t matter, Felicity.” They stare at each other for a long moment, and Roy is pretty sure they have no idea he’s still there, watching their weird little wordless communication. And then Felicity gives a tiny nod, ducking her face just enough to kiss Oliver’s shoulder.

Roy has no idea what happened, but the strange tension that had started to settle over the table dissipates quickly.

Then Oliver says, “I just-- I was angry with myself and Roy--” He glances across the table, giving Roy a little nod-- “saw how badly I was handling things.”

They all pause for the waitress to deliver Felicity’s milkshake and two waters.

Then Roy reaches across the table and steals the cherry, plus a healthy dollop of whipped cream. “And then I told him he was being an idiot,” he says, ignoring Felicity’s protest over his thievery. “But apparently my words of wisdom took a real long time to sink in.”

The edges of Oliver’s lips quirk, and unlike the _happiness suppression_  behavior that Roy’s used to, Oliver starts to grin. “I try to avoid taking advice from my proteges.”

Roy scoffs at that, despite the warm feeling beneath his ribcage. “Protege?”

Oliver arches that sarcastic eyebrow of his. “Sidekick?”

Felicity swats his arm. “Be nice!”

“I’m being perfectly nice,” Oliver says, and the conversation jumps off from there. Because Felicity and Roy provide a series of examples of Oliver’s former grumpy, haughty tendencies. Felicity laughs herself breathless, and to Roy’s surprise, Oliver takes it all with a smirk, even tossing off the occasional not-awful zinger.

(His jokes are still _terrible_  -- really, he shouldn’t even try. It’s all awful _dad_  humor, and Roy just will never understand how this man was once a suave, charming playboy.)

All in all, they spend nearly two hours reminiscing about silly times in the Foundry. Roy’s favorite part was a cheerful contest with Felicity about who can tell the most embarrassing Oliver story -- right up until he _loudly_  puts an end to it when Felicity begins a sentence. “So it turns out hotel beds--”

Eventually, Roy can feel his long day catching up to him, and Felicity fails to hide a yawn. As they get ready to head out, she runs to the restroom. Oliver stands to let her out, then sits back in the booth and leans forward, his hands clasped on the table in front of him. “I really should say thank you,” he begins.

Roy waves him off. “No way, Oliver,” he protests.

“Roy,” Oliver tries, but Roy talks over him.

“The thanks only go one way in this partnership,” he declares, holding Oliver’s gaze so he can see just how strongly Roy feels about this. Roy owes most of the good stuff in his life to Oliver, and all he did was try to pay back some portion of that.

Oliver huffs a laugh, looking down at his hands for a moment. “Okay,” he says finally, “but I have a favor to ask.”

Roy perks up. “Anything,” he says, and he means it in every possible sense. He’s been gone for months, away from the team, away from the _fight_ , but he is still just as willing to lay down his life for Oliver, for Felicity, for Dig, for _Thea_.

And Oliver has always been able to read him pretty well; he smiles a bit and says, “Nothing as dramatic as the last favor you did me.”

Roy gives a careless shrug. “Still: name it.” Oliver glances over his shoulder, checking to make sure Felicity’s not back yet, and Roy _knows._  “No way,” he breathes.

Oliver tilts his head. “Roy?”

“You’re-- you’re gonna propose to her,” Roy says, and he’s sure he’s right.

Oliver’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and then he relaxes back into his seat. “I...” He glances back again. “I bought a ring,” he confirms. “And I think she’ll say yes.”

Roy can feel the stupid grin on his face, but is helpless to stop it. “Dude.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “Don’t _dude_  me, Roy.”

“I’m excited!” Roy protests.

Oliver’s smile is as wide and dopey as Roy’s at this point. “I just-- We’ll want you there. When we--” He stops, like he can’t quite say it out loud.

Roy is nodding enthusiastically until Felicity emerges. Then he tries to cover, tries to stop grinning, but can’t seem to control his face. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he murmurs, then slides out of the booth and hugs Felicity again.

“Woah,” she says, but she wraps her arms around him.

“I’m happy for you guys,” he whispers to her. “Really happy for you.”

Felicity’s arms tighten around him, and when she steps back, there are tears standing in her eyes. “We’re gonna visit you a lot,” she decides. “You’ll be so sick of us.”

“Impossible,” Roy answers, linking his arm with hers as they walk toward the door, Oliver trailing behind them. “I mean, maybe I’ll be sick of _him_...”

Felicity laughs and pushes the door open.

They say their goodbyes on the curb beside the Porsche, and Roy hugs them both. Then he steps back and watches them. He notes the synchronicity in their movements -- the way Oliver ushers her towards the car with a hand low on her back, the way she moves to the side while he unlocks the door, the way she pauses to kiss him before slipping into the seat.

Oliver rounds to the driver’s side and gives Roy a little nod of thanks. Roy dips his chin once.

When they’re both in the car, Roy leans down and rests his elbows on the open window beside Felicity. He smiles at them. “Safe travels,” he says, “and I’ll see you both real soon.”

Oliver’s smile is knowing, Felicity’s is cheerful, and Roy feels a little lighter as he steps back and taps the side of the car lightly in farewell.

END


End file.
